


A Concerning Amount of Sentiment

by TheScarecrowsCrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, First Meetings, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarecrowsCrow/pseuds/TheScarecrowsCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After reasons beyond his control dictate that Mycroft must spend the night at 221b, he doesn't expect to find when he wakes up that he has been left wearing one of John's too small t-shirts and only his boxers for pajamas. Furthermore, he certainly hadn't planned to meet DI Lestrade when he was dressed in this fashion. How will he cope with this new turn of events, especially when Greg is someone that he had decidedly avoided at crime scenes up until this point due to the fact he is attracted to the man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Concerning Amount of Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Just fixing some grammatical errors

Though he would admit in hindsight that going for around three days without sleep was probably not the best idea, the worst idea he had was definitely going to Sherlock’s flat before he had at least had a coffee.

As he approached the door, he felt as though the weight of the world was dragging him down. This was actually pretty ironic given that in most circumstances, he does have to bear the weight of the world given his job. Mycroft reached out, unconsciously straightening the doorknob before he proceeded to knock.

The door to 221b was opened by Mrs Hudson, who was quick to usher him in and offer him a tea before he had even started walking up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, which he politely declined. He may have been in desperate need of some caffeine, but he was under no obligation to drink the dishwater that Mrs Hudson always provided. Or so he told himself anyway. It was then that she informed him that Sherlock was in fact out on a case, but he could wait upstairs, regardless of the fact that she had no idea when he would be coming home. Perhaps she felt pity for him, and it made him regret the fact that he had turned down her offer of tea, even if she did not know the reason behind it.

It was at this point that he really should have gone home, but he just couldn’t force himself at the time, pressing matters at hand and what not. He politely inclined his head then proceeded to climb the stairs, an even greater feat than one would imagine given his sleepy disposition. By the time he had actually reached the top, he was almost euphoric that he had managed to do so without stumbling and falling, which was obviously the first sign that he was hysterical with lethargy. Hardly a good sign, but when one has the ability to deduce their own symptoms and cause, it can on occasion provide the necessary self-control required to prevent further admissions of a negative well-being.

That was how he found himself stifling a giggle as he slumped over to John’s armchair, dropping his umbrella that he had been using as a support, and he proceeded to fall into it with a back-breaking enthusiasm. This was most likely the last nail in the coffin, as he shut his eyes to wince, and just couldn’t bring himself to actually open them again. He always did find it funny seeing other people’s bodies betraying them, but never his own. The last thing he remembered before he fainted into unconsciousness was that he had to give himself a stern talking to about it when he woke up.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stood outside of 221b glaring at the door. John, who had just walked around from the other side of the taxi, gave him a questioning look.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s here.” Sherlock started heading towards the door, where he fiddled with the door knob, before throwing the door open so hard that it almost swung back in John’s face.

“Oi! Watch it! Wait, who’s here?” John jogged lightly to keep up with Sherlock, then ran up the stairs after his billowing coat.

“My brother, that’s who! Never has the damn decency to send a text announcing that he has taken up residency in our flat, most likely has a case for me that I shall _not_ be taking, I don’t know why he even tries anymore.”

In a fashion that can only be described as dramatic, he flings the door open and barges his way into the flat, John fast on his heels.

“How many times-“ Sherlock is cut short as glances over at Mycroft, who is currently sound asleep in John’s armchair. He walks over so that he can get a better look at his face, John standing in the same position as he was when he first came in, looking shocked beyond all measure.

“Hmm… He’s not dead, how unfortunate.” John scowls at Sherlock as he somehow manages pull himself together.

“That’s hardly nice Sherlock, he is your bloody brother. Whilst I admit he is a right pain in the arse, you could hardly want him dead, do you?” John walks over to inspect Mycroft, confirming first that he is indeed not dead, and that he is in fact just sleeping.

“Can’t I have any fun, John?” He rolls his eyes, but afterwards quickly roams them back over Mycroft with what could only be described as carefully hidden concern. John is not fooled. “He has not slept in approximated three days, four hours and-“ he leans closer, squinting, “twenty-two minutes. For a man that always insists he is the smarter one, when it comes to his own health he can be rather idiotic.” John agreed with his sentiment, but decided to not outwardly give it away in fear that Mycroft would look over the CCTV after he had woken up, with the cameras that he knew were planted in his flat by said man.

Sherlock gave out a long suffering sigh and looked pained, before reaching out to grab his brother by the arm, slinging it over his shoulder. John looked confused again, something that he did quite often in Sherlock’s presence, but he reached out for Mycroft’s other arm before he too slung it over his shoulder. They dragged him up into a standing position, if you could call Mycroft with his head lolled forward and his body sagged towards the ground a standing position, before Sherlock spoke again.

“Well as much as it loathes me to say this, we might have to keep him here until he wakes up, so let’s dump him in my room. He won’t be waking up anytime soon, this I can infer from the fact that I know for certain that Mycroft is a light sleeper, and the fact that we actually managed to touch him without him waking up and killing us with a precision that would belie his minor government position is testament to that. Such an idiot.” John once again concurred silently with Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Mycroft did when he woke up was panic. Not because he didn’t know where he was, he knew almost immediately that he was in Sherlock’s bed, but because this could only have meant one thing. His brother had seen him in a moment of weakness, probably John too knowing that those two were practically attached at the hip. He groaned and rolled over, stretching out, realising that he was decidedly less dressed than when he had come into Baker Street earlier that… day?

He was only wearing his boxers, and what must be one of John’s old shirts. Sherlock’s would be far too tight, but where John’s provided extra width, it did not precisely fit length wise. Oh dear god!

Mycroft sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide with terror, before he fell back and groaned once more, suddenly very tired again. His boxers.

He lay there for an eternity wallowing in his self-pity and idiocy which was something that he next to never used to describe himself. He rolled over and strained his ears, certain that he could hear the telling whistle of a kettle. He groaned one final time before forcing himself out of bed, determined to get out of his ridiculous garb.

 

* * *

 

 

DI Lestrade was nothing if not determined. He had found himself on more than one occasion appearing at 221b just to find out that Sherlock and John were not actually home, and after the first couple of times, he decided that since Sherlock didn’t actually show him any respect, he could make himself comfortable whilst he waited until they got back. It wasn’t as though Greg was in the wrong, he hadn’t decided to withhold evidence.

When Mrs Hudson had offered him a tea, he had told her that he would make one himself so that she didn’t have to. While she had insisted that she didn’t mind, he reminded her that she was not Sherlock’s housekeeper, and she had given him a pleased smile and gestured for him to go right on up.

He had just sat down in Sherlock’s armchair with his cuppa, when something bizarre had occurred. He heard movement from somewhere in the flat, and suddenly Sherlock’s bedroom door had creaked open, revealing a ginger man dressed in sleepwear. He had walked towards him, eyes scrunched shut, one hand stifling a yawn whilst the other had stretched far above his head, causing his too short shirt to crawl up above his navel, revealing his equally ginger happy trail. As all this was happening, the man half-yawned out a “Sherlock, where are my clothes?”

The DI could confirm that this wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sight, in fact, rather the opposite. He knew this man. Well, he had seen him anyway, at crime scenes. He had been informed by Donovan that he was some sort of government official, and the man had never actually introduced himself to Greg, so he wasn’t going to go to the trouble of introducing himself either. This was the most dressed down he had seen the man. His usual three-piece suit had looked infallible. Now he just looked beyond words.

Here this man was, coming out of Sherlock’s room of all places, half dressed, asking Sherlock where his clothes were. Surely he couldn’t be…?

 

* * *

 

 

After Mycroft was quite satisfied that his yawn was sufficient, he opened his eyes and that’s when all hell broke loose. Well, more like an inner hell within the confines of his brain that was screaming at him to “ _fucking fix this!_ ”, as he stared into the eyes of one DI Lestrade. That was most definitely not Sherlock, not even John, which would have been much more acceptable than this.

This was the man that he had known for years, yet had never actually introduced himself to. He couldn’t. This man was an anomaly, and caused Mycroft’s mouth to go dry whenever he saw him and for his palms to sweat profusely. This was the man that he admired from afar, the man that had chosen to help Sherlock when Mycroft couldn’t. Not to mention how attractive he was. He tried to never dwell on that fact, because it would mean that he was far more human than he had any right to be. He had made it his mission to never actually come face to face with the man in person, and now here he was, sitting in Sherlock’s chair with a tea cup perched on his lips, eyes roaming all over Mycroft. He suddenly remembered _exactly_ what he was wearing. The panic increased ten-fold.

“Oh my God… oh-“ he looked around frantically, grabbing for the bottom of his shirt and trying in vain to pull it down. He spotted Sherlock’s bathrobe which had been haphazardly ditched near his feet and he quickly grabbed it before thrusting it on. There was literally no way his face could get any redder than this, it was physically impossible, or so he thought.

“Oh eh, you looking for Sherlock? He’s not in.” Mycroft glanced in the DI’s direction, trying to work out how to respond with this thing called ‘words’. The DI saved him the trouble when he spoke up first, “So are you? You know, Sherlock’s boyfriend or something?” It was then that Mycroft face turned a shade of red that had not actually been discovered yet, and his usually schooled expression turned to one of utmost horror.

“Jesus! No, by God no!” Mycroft found that he had never been so inarticulate in his entire life. “I showed up with the intention of discussing a case with him. Due to ignoring my body’s exhausted state, I fell asleep before he came home. I just woke up in his room!”

The DI seemed to be mulling this over, as though it had taken a lot of thought for him to process this, which left Mycroft exasperated and fidgeting. “So let me get this straight…” Lestrade finally breaks the silence, “You aren’t his boyfriend?”

Mycroft’s whole body sagged, and his mouth dropped open yet again, his eyes searching the Detective’s with disbelief, “Why are you so fixated on that? By God man, he’s my brother!”

The detective’s eyes widened fractionally, before he set his face in a polite smile that could almost be described as knowing. Mycroft was highly unnerved by this as he was convinced that he was the one who invented that expression, so he should be the one wearing it. He uncrossed his arms, then re-crossed them waiting for the DI to give his response.

“Sherlock never told me he had a brother, much less such a handsome one!” He let an easy grin loose on his face, head tipped slightly to the side, letting his eyes roam over Mycroft. Said politician decided that this was the best moment to stare at his bare feet instead of even attempting to confront the situation that was occurring before him.

“You are certainly a funny man Detective Inspector.” Mycroft dares to look up at the offending detective, who was still grinning unflinchingly.

“Please, call me Greg. I agree, I must be the funniest man in the world if people find me amusing even when I’m not making any jokes.” He took a sip from his tea, tongue lazily licking at a stray drop that had almost threatened to wander down his chin. Upon noticing Mycroft’s watchful eye, his grin got wider and if possible, cheekier.

“In… In any case, please call me Mycroft.” He had wrenched his eyes away after being caught, and was staring at the inspector’s tea cup sitting on the coffee table, as if in an attempt to assure Greg that that had been what he was staring at all along. A feeble attempt, but his only option given that staring at the DI’s lips for the remainder of the conversation would be unseemly, not to mention telling.

 

* * *

 

 

Greg was also having an issue in regard to staring, but unlike Mycroft he had no intention of doing anything other than letting his eyes do what they wanted. This man in front of him was clearly very uncomfortable, but he was sure it wasn’t due to his flirting and more to do with the fact that he wasn’t in complete control of the situation.

“Mycroft it is then. You said you were here to discuss a case with Sherlock? So am I in fact, he has been withholding some evidence as per usual. I gather from your presence at crime scenes that you are some sort of government worker?” Mycroft glanced at him, then back to the teacup.

“Indeed, a minor government position. Though upon further consideration given the events that have occurred today, I am not entirely pleased with my brother for leaving me in this situation. I think that I shall just deal with the case myself, I see no reason to offer him a way to ease his boredom when he decides to leave me unconscious in one of John’s god awful shirts. I am the smarter brother after all, his deductions are entirely subpar in comparison.” Mycroft gave a thin smile. It seemed to Greg that at the first mention of work, Mycroft had managed to recover his sense of professionalism and decorum almost immediately. “Not to mention that he seems to have hidden my clothes as well. I’m sure I would have found them by now if I hadn’t been so shocked to see someone in Sherlock’s chair that was not Sherlock himself.”

“Ah I see, so you find me to be a distraction do you?” Greg’s head tilted to the opposite side, knowing exactly where Mycroft’s clothes were, but unwilling for the conversation to end. “Also, in reference to John’s shirt, I’d have to disagree. It was certainly rather appealing from this angle.”

Mycroft looked taken-aback, “Well… Well of course you were a distraction from my initially intended course of action. It’s only polite to greet a guest, though I must once again apologise for my lack of proper dress. I do not quite understand how you could have possibly found that shirt ‘appealing’, it was far too short and therefore not a flattering fit.” Mycroft almost succeeded in hiding his confusion.

Greg found this to be rather endearing. How could this man take his words and somehow manage to make it entirely platonic and/or logical, like a filter only fit for a Holmes. This trip to 221b had turned out to be much more interesting than he had initially thought it would be. “I think you are mistaken Mycroft. I know that the shirt was far too short. I also know that I found it really appealing. What can you deduce from that?” Greg had brought his teacup up to his mouth, grinning toothily behind it.

Mycroft stared at him, eyebrows furrowed, before he suddenly turned that lovely shade of red again. “Well I think I understand what you are implying, and I cannot say that I am… immune to your likeability. You should have inferred this much purely due to the fact that I seem to find it almost impossible to string my words together… Very few people hold that sway over me, not to mention someone that I have only just met.”

“Well that’s not true, I have seen you at crime scenes on countless occasions, you just never deemed me worthy enough of your presence.” Greg smirked, enjoying the tease, hoping for a dramatic reaction. He was not disappointed.

“Now that is hardly a fair assumption! I may be smarter than my brother, who believes himself to be better than more conventional people who live in this world, but I have no illusions of grandeur.” He moved to lean against the doorframe, legs and arms crossed after having started to feel the strain of standing on his feet for so long, “Did it not occur to you that I perhaps felt… intimidated?” Having said that, he looked distinctly uncomfortable at the admission.

Greg used this information to further tease the government official, unable to let him off the hook just yet. “Oh, so you were just too shy to say hello to little ole’ me? How precious. You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me Mycroft, I promise I don’t bite. Much.” The look that screamed scandalised on Mycroft’s face was almost too much for Greg, but he withheld his unmanly giggle, intent on hearing Mycroft’s reaction.

“Yes well… yes.” Mycroft just stared at Greg, a mixture of astonishment and embarrassment fighting for dominance in his features. In an attempt to change the subject, he looked around the room, “Perhaps you have seen my clothes… Greg?” Greg couldn’t hold back this particular bark of laughter. “Oh I have definitely seen your clothes, just didn’t feel like giving them back just yet!”

Mycroft scowled in a way that was very reminiscent of Sherlock, though Greg felt that saying so would not actually be appreciated. “So you have known where they are all this time, yet you just left me floundering here in Sherlock’s ratty bathrobe!” He had moved away from the doorframe, legs shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, shoulders slightly slouched forward in distaste.

“Oh yeah, well, the thing is, when I came in, I was feeling a bit bitter at Sherlock’s behaviour. I happened to see your clothes, and without giving them a closer look, I assumed that they belonged to him. As a way of getting revenge on a small scale, I decided to use them as a pillow.” Greg’s eyes wandered down to his lap, then back to Mycroft, spouting a lecherous smile.

Mycroft didn’t quite know how to react to that. He was torn between being horrified that his three-piece suit was being used as a pillow of all things, as well as intrigued by Greg’s thought process. He stubbornly ignored the feeling of adrenaline that was snaking its way through his abdomen at Greg’s smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Perhaps you can find some kindness in yourself to relinquish them into my custody, Greg?” Mycroft raised one of his eyebrows, his face attempting to be intimidating. “Hmm… do you have the necessary paperwork? I’m not a fan of bending the rules, but perhaps just for you…” Greg started to rise from the chair, never once taking his eyes off of Mycroft’s. He stood aside, and gestured to the clothing with a sweeping motion. Mycroft started walking towards him, eyes ripped away from Greg’s brown ones so that he could survey the damage. His clothes were incredibly wrinkled and his forehead did the same in distaste. He bent over and reached out for them, and Greg used this as a chance to lean backwards and glance at the government official’s backside. He found himself regretting the fact that Mycroft had decided to put on Sherlock’s dressing gown, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the view regardless. When Mycroft started to straighten, so did Greg with a bit more urgency. The whole exchange however, was not missed by Mycroft, who had observed the entire thing in their reflection on the window.

His face heated up again, and he deliberately turned to the left instead of the right when he was about to walk towards the bathroom, purely so that Greg couldn’t see his blush. He informed him that he would be out shortly, and Greg offered to make him a tea whilst he was changing, but he politely declined, saying that he had to leave soon and catch-up on his missed work.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stood in the bathroom, sighing all of the tension that he had accumulated out of his body in an attempt to calm his nerves. Never in his life, as someone who was often referred to as the Iceman, had he been through such an emotional rollercoaster in such a short period of time. How could one man have had such an effect on him? He looked at the clothes in his hands, and felt the heat that radiated from them.

The Iceman was more apt a nickname than one might expect. He had always suffered from poor circulation, and his hands were by far the worst, feeling as cold as the dead. The heat from the clothes seeped into his hands, a feeling not unlike having life breathed into them, and he found that the feeling was, for once, rather welcome. He simply smiled down at them, before he looked up at the mirror. His expression could only be described as ‘goofy’, and if he had ever seen it on his face before today he might have actually thought that he had lost his mind and told Anthea to have him committed. His reaction to the look should have been a frown, but instead he found himself laughing out loud in a way he couldn’t remember doing since before he and Sherlock had fallen out. Or more accurately, since Sherlock had fallen out with him.

“Is everything alright in there? Thought I heard a noise?” Mycroft immediately set to putting on his clothes, laughter forgotten, “My apologies, please do not worry, everything is fine!” Once he had managed to make himself look as presentable as possible after not showering in an unknown number of days, wearing wrinkled, used clothes, he put his hand on the door knob and steeled himself for the reveal. He may not be looking his best, but at least he felt more comfortable than when he was wearing that hideous shirt that belonged to John.

He opened the door and peeked out, realising that he was being far too cautious before he strode out of the bathroom, head held high. Greg was standing by the window, gazing down at the street. He glanced up and gave Mycroft a warm smile, eyes roaming over his newly clothed figure. Mycroft halted outside the door that led to the entrance way, and Greg approached him, standing a respectable distance apart.

“I regret something you know” Greg tilted his head in amusement, whilst Mycroft gave him an appropriately questioning look, “And what would that be Greg?”

Greg’s eyes once more danced around Mycroft body, leaving the man feeling incredibly self-conscious of his messy clothes, “You see, the thing is, I regret not giving you back your clothes sooner. Whilst yes, I was rather enamoured with your legs out on display, I must admit that seeing you in that suit of yours whilst it’s so wrinkled… it gives you the look of someone who’s just been up to something naughty, and words can’t explain how much you are doing it for me right now.” Greg lets out a sigh of contentment before reaching out his hand for Mycroft to shake whilst he concludes, “Next time you are at a crime scene, we need to get a coffee. In fact, next time you are free in general we need to get a coffee, and that’s a fact. You know where to find me.”

Mycroft stands in a stunned silence, but reaches out his hand for Greg’s sturdy grip, hands lingering together in an unspoken promise. Eventually he was roused from his stupor by the sounds of the front door opening, so he gave Greg a curt nod before turning away and saying his goodbyes. He left the room and shut the door behind him, leaning heavily on it as he attempted to regain his ability to breathe like an average human being.

Sherlock and John took this opportunity to reach the top of the stairs, both staring at Mycroft with looks of discontent and worry, though Sherlock was much better at hiding it than John.

“What happened? Is something wrong?!” Sherlock reached out a hand towards Mycroft who seemed to come to his senses at that exact moment, and he pushed between the two men to get past, starting his descent down the stairs. “I’m fine!” the lie was said in a voice a few pitches higher than his usual, “Thank you for letting me stay, I’ll be going now!” all of this was said without Mycroft actually stopping his run down the stairs.

“But what about the case you wanted me to take?! Aren’t you even going to ask me?” Sherlock shouts over the bannister, confused and angry at his brother’s dismissal of him. “No, just leave it, bye!” And that was the last thing Mycroft said before slamming the door to 221b shut.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock and John exchanged a look before entering their flat, unsure of what carnage they would find inside. The last thing they had expected to see was DI Lestrade sitting, once again, comfortably on Sherlock’s armchair, with the whole flat still in one piece. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man, for once unsure what exactly had transpired. He tried to rapidly deduce what had occurred, but was having trouble doing so given that he was feeling suddenly incredibly unnerved, as though his subconscious was telling him that something simply abominable had happened.

“John… I cannot say why exactly, but I have the feeling that something decidedly unholy has occurred in the flat of 221b.” John gave him a strange look, before turning back to the DI. “Hey Greg. Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home,” He glanced at the teacup and smiled teasingly, before once again his expression became confused. “Mycroft just left, he looked really flustered about something. I didn’t know you’s two knew each other?”

Greg smiled lazily, “Oh we didn’t know each other, just met in fact. Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me that you had a brother? Or a really fit one at that.” His smile turned lecherous for the second time that day, and it was then that Sherlock finally realised exactly what had happened in his very own home.

“Sacrilegious! Entirely profane!” Sherlock’s face had never looked so disgusted and horrified, he felt as though he was going to dry heave. This only served to make Greg’s grin wider. John laughed at the entire scene, completely disbelieving but incredibly amused, “Sherlock, you’re an atheist!” he managed to get out through his fits of laughter.

“Ah!” Greg stood up, seeing Mycroft’s umbrella had been accidently left standing against the wall in his rush to leave, “I think I will take this with me, I can give it back to Mycroft on our date. I do so hope he decides to wear the cartoon donut underwear he was wearing today, hilarious that a man who dresses so professionally wears novelty boxers beneath all those layers. I expect the evidence you are withholding from me to be on my desk by tomorrow morning. I think I shall take my leave now, had a wonderfully productive day. Bye boys!” Greg started to saunter towards the door before shutting it decidedly, but not before hearing Sherlock shout, “Did you hear that John! A date! And his donut boxers! May God have mercy on our souls!” with John replying something along the lines of how hilarious it was that Sherlock had somehow decided to be religious at the mere thought of his brother dating.

Greg twirled the umbrella in a way very reminiscent of Mycroft, whistling as he left.

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy my headcannon that under all those layers of professionalism, Mycroft wears novelty boxers.


End file.
